Dawn in the Basement
by vaudevillain king
Summary: Somewhere in between the broken pieces, Walter finds the time to hope.


_A bit of Walter-centric fun for you all. He's one of the most fascinating characters I've come across in any of my fandoms, and I wanted to delve into the obviously broken sides of his personality. I hope it's understandable._

_Also, a bit spoiler-y, I suppose. But just a bit._

_All characters herein belong to Konami and Team Silent. _

* * *

Walter Sullivan paced the halls of his world with the steps of one familiar with their nonexistence, their haunting sounds and trace of memories. Seconds could pass between a forest and an apartment building, and Walter was in all at once, omniscient and divided. At the time of his Assumption, Walter knew that some part of him decided that not every piece could fit into a single form. There was too much shattered glass, sorrow and ache and memory - the oozing, dripping rotation of prison walls and the division between a spoon in his neck and a girl's battered doll staring up at him from a tiny, giving hand. Every part of the babe was that which remembered the slow rotation of an unforgiving ceiling fan and the rushed footsteps of parents too eager to leave; he was all those small and broken pieces that woke up in the night, _every night_, to a stark wooden ceiling from the bitter grip of nightmares and yet he was too cold to cry or scream, Mother, Mother, _Mommy_, help.

And he, coat of blue fabric armor and guns that little hands could never bear to use, was the leftover. An empty shell, puppeteer for the precious little one, giving and giving for the sake of Mother dear. For the sake of a dream that he no longer slept enough to see.

Walter Sullivan, the murderer, the man who was no longer – he never dreamed. Walter Sullivan lived, breathed, the First Sign, Second, Third. He saw on his ceilings in the timeless un-night, the Ten Hearts, White Oil, Black Cup. His sluggish dead blood pumped only with Temptation in mind, Source filling his sight, Watchfulness, Chaos all-devouring. His body was the one hanging in front of the altar, so the boy could be free to dream and wait for a loving mother's arms. The womb, the reversal of birth.

Fixing the mistake that the world made.

Green eyes flecked like jaundice, they had no time to spend with wanting. Too busy, flickering over words memorized on the backs of heavy lids. Counting, a tally, a simple odd number which coiled around him and encased his very heart. One, two, three…

_Teacher taught me how. _

But it was that number, that last, pretty number that so fascinated him. He couldn't want, so he memorized, the final in the count - a whole and beautiful twenty-one, to make Mommy proud of the little one, for working so hard, coming so far. Nothing for him, everything for himself.

So Walter was content in the confinement of his sole purpose, resigned to be satisfied by his fascination of watching. Mother's windows, eyes, and inside… perfection.

Twenty-one.

Henry Townshend seemed to be breaking. Buckled over his knees, a ball of twisting human feeling on his sofa, the Receiver of Wisdom hadn't moved in what felt like a long while. Walter noticed how this would happen. Every few times of waking through the blur of transmutation and Henry Townshend would shatter, be it on his couch or the floor or clawing at the chains that encased Mother's forbidden door. It hadn't occurred to Walter at all, that perhaps Henry would want to go out. After all, Outside was a dangerous place…

He hoped that Henry would understand. Hate him for it now, yes, but once he had forever, once they had Paradise…

Mother chose Henry as much as Walter had. Of course Henry would want to stay, once he understood. Once it was all over. Of course he would come quietly… Willingly. Though to sit beside himself or the sleeping little boy, Walter was never quite sure.

Walter never really thought of this, of course. He didn't quite know if he had a purpose beyond doing, beyond lifting the blade or the gun and carving numbers. He could very well just slip away, away from being, doing, consciousness, away from breath and this omniscient flux of faux-life, but then, there was Henry.

It occurred to Walter quite often that there was nothing particularly_ male_ about Henry. To Walter, every part, this meant father, the fleeing spiteful faceless figure made of muscle and sinew and empty space. Abandonment. No, no, his Receiver of Wisdom was nothing like this. Not so pathetic. Not so human.

Henry was something else entirely. Soft and warm and absolutely terrified, a rabbit in a cage, a fox being chased by hunters' rabid dogs. But _determined._ Henry could have left that precious, battered girl behind, _Eileen_, left her to tumble and fall on her pretty, crippled legs and let Walter watch her watery doe's eyes close. Mother, _mother_, now let me sing you a lullaby before you go to sleep, like you never did me... But, Henry didn't, didn't turn, run. Henry, terrified, beaten repeatedly, Henry handed the girl, the woman, unimportant, a weapon and told her, _come with me_.

Surely, unquestionably, nothing could be so immaculate and kind and wonderful and still be horrible, dangerous, unforgivably dirty and _human._

Of course, Walter recognized the frail human membrane in which this pure soul was trapped. He saw it bleed, riddled with bite marks, bruises… gunshot wounds. He'd laughed and hoped Henry didn't think him too much a sadist. Humans were so dangerous, and yet so easily broken! He smiled to himself even now, at this surprisingly delightful revelation.

No, Henry Townshend was nothing like the rest. Walter was endlessly amused and surprised at how the man seemed to pull him in, fascinate him, simply by existing. He'd never found anything so remarkable, so interesting, a bug under a microscope. He longed to push through the windows, walls like paper, and get a closer look. Too see. To, perhaps, feel. He really knew nothing of those forbidden grown-up experiences beyond the clinical, the facts of a text book, but he knew that he wanted to see Henry Townshend screaming. Broken. Bleeding. He wanted to push, and press, torment, understand somehow the workings of this all too human form, these bloodied hands. He wanted to see something besides the insides of his eyelids. Wanted to hear his name in a tone far from revulsion or pity. He was tired, so tired, of cold rooms and loneliness, of dogs and worms and leeches, empty haunted ghost eyes and the little boy crying, _Mommy_…

The glass was cold, biting against his hands, and Walter, for once, was not thinking of them as eyes or gateways into loving arms. He was far, far from his assigned place, his purpose, and he was so close to what he wanted-! Henry Townshend, now digging through the battered chest for the smooth wax of candles, Henry Townshend in his mind's eye, torn asunder. Stripped and pure and perfect, screaming. Numbers carved in absolution, down his chest, perhaps, ending in a straight line to the darkest and most secret of places. Bleeding, and licked clean. Walter would do this, watch him scream, beg, cry, and Walter would heal him. The most pagan of rituals. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

Walter watched, and wanted, longed for, his blue coat seeming heavy now, too thick. Henry Townshend found his candles and was trembling as he watched the screaming faces of blue-pink children, unborn souls, rip through his wall and fade with oozing wax. Receiver of Wisdom, giver of heartache, pretty and pure and so close to undone. Walter wanted forever with this, forever to spend watching, touching, breaking, teaching-

_In this world, I am your God. _

But, of course, Walter had no time for wanting. He had steps left to take, to see the boy smile. Ever the altruist, empty of all but purpose. Forever would come, an endless abyss, the open womb waiting, and he would bring it, or succumb, the sacrificial lamb strung up at the altar. Eileen Galvin sat against a prison wall, curled in her broken state and waiting for her savior or her killer to return. Walter knew that it didn't really matter who found her first, this time. Henry was retrieving his gun, his axe, and Walter felt the cold cells calling, ever with the impatience of a child.

In another time, another place, another impossible universe where mothers loved their sons and lives never amounted to numbers, perhaps they could have been friends. Perhaps, perhaps, they could have existed, together, and Walter would never have had to worry about Paradise, eternities. Henry could be Henry, and never twenty-one.

But, such an idea was preposterous, because humanity was foul enough for Mother to hate it, for the boy to scream and cry. He had to make the noises stop, drink down the leeches, butcher the Reborn, claim the Receiver. Walter Sullivan, the divided, boy and man, had no fate but to walk forward. Into the dank, the endlessness of water, with his pockets weighed down by lead memory and guns.

Not even in his world was there time for wanting, or a breath that did not release the name of Mother.

He sighed, a sound soft and bitter sinking through the floor, and decided that today, it would rain.


End file.
